Archive of Our Own

Minho supposed he should be glad that his supervisor still sympathized with him enough that she didn’t fire him for his sporadic bursts of work hours. He would’ve fired himself if he were her because truly, there wasn’t a point in him working if he showed up one day at his dainty office table and disappeared the next—although, he always finished his work.

He sat on the worn couch of the villa he recently purchased, staring at the dining table with a distant look in his eyes that someone he knew would call, l'appel du vide. His spiraling thoughts had begun becoming a penchant of every day, an endless cycle until he decided that he was done. 

What people around him guessed was a fresh start was a fresh end for him, because what was the point of living after losing so much? He sighed and pressed his temples as his eyes focused on the bottle of soju and the new medications that Seungmin had awkwardly handed him informing him that they were mailed to his old address when he went to the office two days ago.

The accident had ripped away the only life he knew, and the only one he wanted to know. He was still angry as to why he wasn’t the one that was ripped away along with it. Minho exhaled heavily and leaned back on the couch, ignoring its creaks as he rested his head on its backrest. Something—like an inkling already told him what he should do. 

He should end it. 

Minho promised himself that he would try living a little. Not to life’s extremities, but something that didn’t alert the neighbors, telling them that he was a hermit that refused to come outside because he realized that they were oddly nosy when he didn’t come outside for a few weeks. 

Just the night before, when he was making a small list of things he wanted to do, he had heard the doorbell ring. Upon opening it, it had been his neighbor, a freckled man with a foreign accent that held out a small box of brownies. 

He glanced back at them—which sat poised on his kitchen counter, frowning and looking down at his feet. He had finished his list in the morning and stood with his arms crossed as he stared at it stuck to the fridge door. 

The first task was to see what the villa even had, for he had used nothing but the living room and kitchen, and bathroom, the rooms were unchecked, and he was yet to see the interiors of the basement. 

[Hope you're doing better!] His phone lit up with the notification from someone that probably didn't even care about him and was put up by some of his friends. 

Minho frowned and shut it down, glancing back at the list he stuck on the old refrigerator. Seven days as a countdown, seven things to do. It couldn't help but give him a shake of deja vu that hurt his empty stomach. 

"I want to perform on the stage when I get a chance," Jisung said, practically shouting with how fast the wind was whipping in through the open car windows. "And then win awards and go to some shitty award show and make money!"

"Seven days!" Changbin shouted to Jisung, glancing back from the driver's seat, hand on the steering wheel and face flushed. "Just wait till then, knothead!"

"This is a surprise for Channie hyung, right?" Jeongin added, pointing back at the expensive speakers and amps in the back. 

Minho's head perked up. "Yah, I bought it with my money. If I don't get a backstage ticket and—and get laid I'm taking it back from you," he slurred, head falling on Jisung's shoulder, who laughed. 

"Wait for seven days, asshole," Changbin chuckled. 

Minho frowned, ripping the list he had worked hard making. He wished he could just forget about it, but he couldn't, and he hated himself for that. Just before he could pick up the scissors that he knew he had placed on the counter, he was surprised to see them gone. 

Minho cursed himself for misplacing them and blamed it for being tipsy from the soju he had consumed. Alcohol used to make him feel better at the start, completely pulling him out of his thoughts, but now it only served to dive him right back into them, stuck in a spiral that he couldn’t get out of. 

Minho lowered himself into the bathtub, feeling the water rise up to his chest and teeter close to the edge of the big tub. He closed his eyes and sighed, tipping his head to the side and seeing that the door was open. The little alcohol still convinced his brain that he was probably the one that kept it open—and it didn't particularly matter either way because he lived alone. 

It wasn’t like he had much to hide either, nothing precious left to hide from the world like regular people who locked their doors while they were alone. If a killer were to slip in through the open windows or patio, he’d more than gladly accept his fate. 

Minho could feel the pressure building underneath his skin once again, prodding upwards like it was something alive—clawing with only one way to let it out. He sighed, glancing down through the murky rose bathsalt water to look at the surgical scars that ran from his left ankle to his mid-thigh—a supposedly dire injury by the ambulance workers, which somehow got stitched up because he ended up being the first one they could work with. 

He let himself slip further down till his hair was drenched and the water was at his chin, he continued till he had his entire face submerged underneath the surface of the water, and had to hold his breath. 

There was a thing about drowning, which he had realized not too long ago, it was that the initial part of it was terrifying—where despite the mind’s intention, the body fought to survive, thrashing and refusing to inhale the water until the lungs gave out and inhaled the water, filling them up and unable to aid the heart in supplying blood—it was a chain reaction, but as the brain began filling with water, it also helped dissipate the fear. 

Minho gasped; the water around him fell over the edges, drenching the royal blue rug that was wrung out in front of the toilet and sink as he tried to keep himself underneath the captive surface. He could feel the burn in his nose and throat, cold against the usual hot areas. But just before he could reach that one point—the one point that would stop his thrashing, he found himself being yanked upwards. 

The moment he was yanked upwards, he sputtered the water out, eyes red-rimmed and hands shaky and uncoordinated in their movements. He grimaced when he realized how much water had fallen outside.

What had he done—? 

Minho slapped a hand over his forehead and dragged it down his face, staring at his rippling reflection. The yank he felt left a dull pain on the area of hair it pulled, it wasn’t himself, he knew that much, but whatever it was, it felt alive . His nasal passage burned as he took a surge of oxygen in and pressed the drain with his toe, sitting there till he felt something next to him. 

The ‘something next to him’ became a constant sensation. He got it when he sat on his study table and tried to get the day's work done, sending another apologetical email to his supervisor. He got it when he leaned over the toilet bowl emptying his stomach with whatever he tried to make himself eat—he got it everywhere. It wasn’t the sensation of something that was bothersome, in fact, it was like the feeling of looking behind one’s back and seeing a dove—completely harmless but there.

Minho closed his eyes as he let another one of the troublesome movies replay on his laptop screen because he just couldn’t stop reminiscing. 

His chest felt heavy as the same music flooded his ears, the same characters that entwined their hands and smiled promising each other that they’d stay together forever. Minho yearned for that sensation of sitting next to them again on the couch, feeling someone bury their head into his neck when particularly unsettling parts came up. 

He hugged his calves and buried his head in his knees, unable to stop his fists from shaking. It was his fault. All his fault . He should’ve held back and should’ve been the responsible one because he was the eldest. The movie tuned in one of its usual coming-of-age tunes and Minho could only remember how Jisung would always speak over its dialogue with how excited he was at seeing the movie a couple hundred times. 

Minho reached over the table and picked up the can of beer, chugging down on it until his throat burned with the reminiscence of drowning, like there was a fire burning him and dousing him with water at once. He dropped the empty can and buried his face in his knees again, digging his nails into his calves to stop himself from shaking. 

Three more days and then it would be over. 

—

Hyunjin watched the new man with piqued interest, unable to keep himself from wafting around him often. It was almost a decade since the villa had been purchased, and a long time since Hyunjin had even seen a living person other than the occasional dogs around the neighborhood that seemed to sense him from time to time. 

He sat next to the man, whose name he came to learn was Minho— Lee Minho . His diploma had been scattered somewhere in the pile of files that Minho never bothered to fiddle around with. It was a doctorate in literature, which should be landing him a good job as a professor in some clustered university—but he worked as an accountant. 

He watched bittersweetly as Minho pulled himself through another anxiety attack alone, shaking as he held himself tightly. Hyunjin couldn’t help but reach out, only to swallow softly when his hand ghosted through Minho. It was a weird predicament, that he could move inanimate things, but couldn’t do the same with living things. 

He pulled his hand back and copied the way Minho sat. If he were alive, he’d be brimming with shame, but he couldn’t stop himself from following the latter everywhere. “It’s okay ,” he muttered, running his hand down Minho’s back, knowing well that he wasn’t heard or that his touch wasn’t tangible. 

Minho stopped shaking for a moment, looking in his direction, or rather past him before he looked back at the ground and sighed. It was what made Hyunjin feel surprised from time to time that Minho seemed to sense him there, but not quite there . From what he had found out by following Minho around, was that he was in some sort of accident, by the scars on his shoulder and raking down near his calves, it seemed to be an extreme one. 

“Fucking hell,” Minho cursed suddenly, standing up and rushing over to his laptop and closing its top abruptly, chest heaving as he whimpered when the music dissipated. 

The other things that Hyunjin had caught onto were that Minho was… a bit on the edge, teetering on being suicidal with how lankily he treated himself—not caring much about his sleep or the fact that he passed out from sheer hunger and exhaustion on the ground a few times, only for Hyunjin to take pity on him and somehow lift him up. 

There was a thing he found out about himself too, that he could touch Minho from time to time when the other was close to death. It was how he had panicked that Minho was losing oxygen and wasn’t popping his head back up from the water that he just reached out and yanked, astonished when he felt soft hair thread into his fingers. 

The sky was oddly bright without any sunlight and he could tell by the way Minho kept shivering that it was cold, or that it was just the way he spent his days perpetually drunk. It concerned Hyunjin how many empty bottles of soju and beer cans were there in the large shifting box that Minho had made his makeshift trash can. 

He followed Minho as he paced around the house, muttering something to himself from time to time and pausing and thinking—something vaguely philosophical. One’s existence is something that’s correlated to their mindset, that time is just a measure of their physical self, and that mentality is perennial, that was what Minho had muttered when he paused near the staircase. 

Hyunjin wondered if he had taken philosophy too, but considering that he had a doctorate in literature, it was not surprising that he had these thoughts. Weirdly, enough, he had begun noticing changes in the latter’s behavior, that he was becoming more relaxed and a little happy . 

He walked behind Minho as the former trod up the stairs and pushed open the doors that hadn’t been opened in years. Minho peeked into the rooms and glanced around, coughing a little at the dust gathering and eyes rapt. It wasn’t until his hand pushed open the door to Hyunjin’s old room that Hyunjin felt a small pang in his chest. 

Minho’s lips pursed as he entered the room, taking in the sight of many easels that had canvases resting on them, covered by parchment paper to prevent the drawings from collecting dust. The walls were also streaked with paint, and a small metal bed in the corner had stars draping from the ceiling. The walls also had old Korean songs’ CDs stuck on them along with too old cinema tickets hanging from clippers on a thread. 

Hyunjin watched Minho’s expression as he walked closer to the wall, accidentally stepping on a dried tube of paint on the ground and cursing. Once he was close enough to stare at the small origami photo frame that held many polaroids of Hyunjin’s old memories, he sighed softly, running his finger over Hyunjin’s picture which was taken outside a diner late at night. 

“Beautiful,” Minho whispered at the picture, pulling his hand back and looking at the other ones. There was one Hyunjin had taken with his old crush, who was probably already married and had kids. She was holding up a twine that had five pink hyacinths tied to it, something which Hyunjin had gifted her on some Thursday morning when they were walking to university. 

Minho pulled away and glanced back at the canvases, pulling the parchment paper off one of them and staring in awe at the painting of roses. Hyunjin could feel himself flush at the awestruck look and the small compliments that slipped out of Minho’s mouth. 

The latter man moved to another easel and peeled the parchment off, swallowing when he noticed the painting of an elderly couple walking together, holding hands and looking subtly at each other. He moved at the other easels and smiled when he noticed a detailed painting of the same girl in the Polaroid—the next painting was of swans flying over the lake, raking the tips of their feet in the water. 

Minho lifted each of the parchments with equal fervor, eyes drinking in the moments encapsulated in the canvases. Hyunjin tried to catch up with the way Minho was quickly opening the parchments and moving around the room till he was left with the last few canvases, which Hyunjin wished his hand didn’t ghost through Minho’s to stop him from watching them. 

Minho’s hands lifted the parchment of the first canvas, gasping softly when he registered the painting of a vaguely human-like figure coughing out bloodied lisianthuses, with eyes shaded over and body nude. The next canvas revealed a similar figure, nude and so similar to that of Hyunjin’s, with blood trailing down its hips as it drowned in darkness. 

Hyunjin watched Minho’s expression contort into an almost pained look as he opened the last parchment and exhaled softly. Hyunjin stood beside Minho, reaching towards the drawing and pressing down on its canvas, tracing the oil pastels and paint with his finger, causing the oil medium to smudge the slightest at the wrists, removing the intricacy of the wound, he glanced at Minho who stood wide-eyed. 

“That’s you, isn’t it?” He muttered under his breath, but Hyunjin retracted his hand and sighed. There was a barrier that he knew he shouldn’t break despite how affiliated he felt to Minho—he didn’t know why he was still here—and didn’t need to die twice to know that there was a distinct line between the dead and living. 

"You're really beautiful," Minho muttered, tracing the smudge Hyunjin had made. "It feels like I'm speaking to myself right now, but I think you can hear me."

I can , Hyunjin wanted to reply. But you can't hear me. He sighed as Minho placed a hand in his direction, ghosting right through him and touching the edge of the next easel. He felt the touch of soft hands like an evanescent kiss from a butterfly. 

Minho let out another sigh and retracted his hand, glancing back at the painting. "Feels like that's a painting of me," he muttered, eyes glistening the slightest as they scanned the canvas—the soft hues of skin tones mixing with the brown-red hues of blood that dribbled from the nude body near the wrists and neck. 

It's not, please, don't, Hyunjin wished he could tell Minho not to think like that, that it wasn't worth it, but that would be plain hypocrisy. Albeit, he stayed quietly beside the shorter man, glancing over his shoulder as he fixed the parchment over each canvas, picking up brushes and palletes that were knocked out of their plastic-cup holders due to winds coming through drafts.

Once he was done, he sat down on Hyunjin's old bed, glancing at the direction that Hyunjin stood in, a small smile on his face that Hyunjin swore was the first he had seen. "I wonder why the things aren't cleared out yet," Minho muttered, letting himself fall flat on the bed, causing a cloud of dust to rise along with him. "It smells like rose perfume. The expensive kind."

Upon death, Hyunjin had lost most of his perceptions other than sight, slowly regaining that of tangibility, and then hearing, he still couldn't smell properly but could make out strong scents like pungent and heavy perfumes. He could still make out the scent of his bed, which had begun smelling like roses ever since his mother threw her bottle of perfume at him, only for it to hit the wall beside him and shatter, causing the glass and liquid to wall on his sheets and bed. 

He quietly walked over to the bed and sat down beside Minho's torso, letting his hand rest over the latter's—only to have it pass right through, and wished he could feel Minho's warmth. 

He continued to follow Minho into the basement the next day, watching as the other reached down to pick up some stray metal chunk and toss it on the table. For the first time in two months, the latter had even roamed the other parts of the house and bothered to clean it up. 

Minho paused at the graffiti Hyunjin had made along with her , tracing over the spray-like edges and glancing back at the spare engine parts that were what his parents used to fix up their car from time to time. 

"You seem to have been rich," Minho said, tracing the BMW emblem on one of the car's spare tires. Hyunjin appreciated the banter but knew that Minho wouldn't hear him even if he replied, regardless he found himself replying. "I was."

It concerned Hyunjin a bit, that Minho was talking so much, to the shorter man, Hyunjin was neither seen nor heard, so he was practically talking to silence. 

Minho picked the tires up with great difficulty and stacked the three of them, letting the fourth lean against the stack, causing a small piece of paper to fall from the insides of the tire. Hyunjin crouched down beside Minho and realized it was his nametag, which must've been kept there by his parents or someone. 

"Hwang Hyunjin," Minho read out. "If that's the year… then you should be almost… thirty-four-ish by age."

Hyunjin wanted to correct him that he was still twenty-four, given that he was stuck in the same body he had when he passed away. " I'm twenty four."

Minho glanced in his direction, and Hyunjin felt almost intimidated by how Minho could sense precisely where he was. "Did you know there's a belief that after dying, most people are stuck where they passed away?"

Ah, really? 

"I think it's really sad in a way, because wouldn't it be extremely lonesome? To be so alone that one can't even perceive touch or talk, it must be also saddening that people run away after they see something move just because you were trying to get by." Minho stood up and placed the card in his pocket in the process, lips pursing. "I feel much like a ghost right now. I have people that care about me, but I've isolated myself so much that I haven't spoken to anyone in months, or touched."

"Decades. I know, " Hyunjin replied, turning in Minho's direction and crossing his legs, watching the latter walk around as he thought. 

"Maybe when I die I can see you too," Minho mumbled, and Hyunjin froze. Sure, he wanted to talk to Minho—be able to feel him, but he didn't want it like that. He huffed softly and stood up walking over to Minho and feeling the latter stiffen. 

"I want to touch you," Minho declared, reaching a hand out, ghosting it through Hyunjin. "You've been haunting my dreams, and I feel like I've either touched insanity or I'm finally figuring out what it means to live."

Hyunjin took a few steps back and reached his own hand forward, letting his hand just hover in front of Minho's, biting his lower lip when he saw Minho shudder. The former was enthralling like this, when he had his lips parted just the slightest and a glimmer in his eyes. 

" Me too."

The next day, he followed Minho as the shorter filled his bathtub as usual, sitting on the counter and swaying his legs as he watched Minho strip. The latter left the door open to the bathroom every time he took a shower, uncaring about the fact that someone was watching him. Hyunjin knew it was wrong, but he didn't trust the latter to be alone in the bathroom of all places. 

The familiar scent of rose bath salts filled the air as Minho bent over to check the temperature, something that he hadn't done even once. Hyunjin could never get tired of observing the way Minho’s muscles flexed or the way his ribs were seen when the orange light of the bathroom cascaded on them. Minho hadn't eaten much other than some fruit he bought and alcohol, and whenever he sucked a particularly deep breath, his stomach would sink in revealing more of his ribcage. 

Hyunjin watched Minho get into the water and sigh softly, lips drawing into a line. It was the bottom line of his thoughts that something wasn’t right today, and he searched Minho’s for the answer, but couldn’t find much. The expression only reflected one of forlorn and slight happiness. 

That was about when he caught it, the stationary packet of razors that Minho's closed fist lay on the corner of the tub. Hyunjin’s eyes widened— no, no, no. He stood up immediately, reaching for the razor but Minho had already picked it up, opening the packet and tossing the plastic and paper box on the carpet outside. 

“Stop it,” Hyunjin shouted, but his voice only managed to ring in his ears.

The latter man sunk a little into the tub and traced his fingers around the edges of the blade, swallowing as though he was contemplating it. It was brief and Hyunjjin could only hope he remembered something and stopped . But the look of defeat and pure exhaustion on Minho’s face was extensive. 

Minho brought the blade down and Hyunjin tried to stop him, only to have his hand ghost right through, pressing against the ceramic. He heard the latter man let out a small whimper and could feel his chest tighten when Minho accidentally dropped the blade into the water, quickly picking it up and drawing more lines—dragging them until his elbow till he was a heaving mess. 

For a moment, there was no sign or redness, only a small jagged crevice—the blood came momentarily, slowly beading till it was dripping into the bathtub and Hyunjin could only let a mantra of no escape his lips. 

Not when he—he couldn’t have done anything either way, but Minho . 

Minho sobbed, his cries muffled as he bit down on his lower lip and reached down to drag more vertical streaks, going deep enough that it took more time for the blood to come out, and once it did, it wouldn’t stop. Hyunjin tried reaching out again, feeling his own breathing start to pick up when he just couldn’t get his hands to touch Minho. 

“ Stop it, please ,” he begged. He couldn’t have Minho go the same way he did, he didn’t want police and ambulances showing up at this house again—didn’t want people to step out of cars with tearful eyes—he didn’t want to see Minho’s lifeless body. However, Minho persisted to no avail, crying out as he held the blade in his non-dominant hand and dug a deep crevice. 

Hyunjin could feel himself hyperventilating. What was Minho doing? Why? Why? Why ? He moved away from the tub and threw open the second drawer underneath the sink counter, taking out the roll of bandages and tossing it behind him, rushing over to Minho. “ Stop,” he pleaded. 

Minho seemed to have hit something deep enough because the blood just wasn’t stopping—dark liquid pouring out from both his wrists. Hyunjin felt scared, was he about to lose the first person that came into his place and even acknowledged his existence? Hyunjin reached out to Minho again, wishing he could just shake some sense into him and just get him to breathe and realize how wrong this was. 

“Aegi,” Hyunjin rasped, reaching out and feeling his hands grab Minho’s shoulder. It took him back to reality, his eyes widening. No, no, no, no . 

Minho slurred something under his breath, his eyes unsteady and his head lolling near the side of the bathtub. “ Minho—” Hyunjin tried again, feeling himself able to grab more of Minho’s shoulder and stepped into the water, quickly unclogging the drain and feeling Minho fight a little in his hold. 

When his eyes opened the slightest, they widened, in Hyunjin’s direction. But Hyunjin couldn’t care less, he grabbed the bandages and toilet paper, bunching the paper up and dabbing Minho’s wrists and forearms, he inhaled and exhaled quickly as he moved up to soak up the blood on both arms. The blood was dark in hue, giving him enough sign that it wasn’t coming from an artery. 

“Wh…what are you doing?!” Minho shouted suddenly, but there was no fight in his body. 

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” Hyunjin snapped back, tossing the toilet paper in the water that was still leaving the tub and grabbing another one, bunching it up and pressing it down on the wounds, feeling his chest ache when Minho winced sharply. 

“You…” Minho’s voice trailed off, his eyes going unfocused once again. 

The bleeding had stopped near the tapering parts of the injuries, but it was still present in the deeper regions. “Why would you do this?” Hyunjin asked, voice still loud but not at the point it was shouting. 

Minho opened his eyes again, blinking in a sort of trance. “You’re… real.” 

Hyunjin’s lips parted and he paused momentarily, but resumed his dabbing, going over each wound for what felt like hours and couldn’t care that for the first time, the clothes he wore were catching the blood stains. “You’re a fool, why would you do this? You said that someone named Chan will kill you if you do this, right? So why the hell would you do this?” 

Minho said nothing, just stared at him, eyes scrutinizing Hyunjin’s mere existence. 

Hyunjin didn’t let himself waver underneath the gaze and instead sighed when he realized the continuous bleeding had subsided, replaced with translucent liquid that topped each puffed-up wound. He wordlessly reached out for the roll of bandage and began wrapping it around Minho’s arms. 

When Hyunjin had finished wrapping each wound, he let out a puff of air, exhaling shakily. “You almost died…” he whispered. 

“That was the intention,” Minho hoarsed, looking at the ceiling of the bathroom, unable to meet Hyunjin’s eyes. 

Hyunjin bit his lower lip, reaching for the towel Minho had dropped unceremoniously on the closed toilet lid, picking it up and covering Minho’s lower body with it. “I can see you,” the shorter man whispered, glancing at Hyunjin. 

Hyunjin didn’t want the topic to change, but neither did he want to push until Minho was in a safer headspace to talk about it. “I can touch you,” Hyunjin supplied, swallowing slowly. 

Minho blinked with lidded eyes as if he was struggling to stay awake. “You mean… you could see me this whole time?” 

Hyunjin nodded guiltily. 

“Can’t even die, now, can I?” Minho asked, blinking away the tears that had begun to gather in his eyes. “You couldn’t let me pass away so I could join you?” 

“Minho…” Hyunjin tried. “Please.” 

More tears began escaping. “Fuck, what is wrong with me?” 

“Please, just… let me get you to bed, okay? Everything will be ‘kay,” Hyunjin reached his hands to slip underneath both of Minho’s armpits and propped the both of them up till they were standing and he had the towel wrapped around Minho’s torso. 

Minho suddenly clung to him, his body wracking with sobs as he tried to bring Hyunjin close. “I keep fucking everything up.” 

Hyunjin blinked, feeling himself almost melt at the touch, and carefully wrapped his arms around Minho’s body. “That’s not true,” Hyunjin coaxed. 

“You don’t know anything about me.” Minho sniffled, biting his lower lip. 

“I’ve known you for almost two months to know you’re constantly blaming yourself for something,” Hyunjin replied, letting his shaky hand do the job of threading his fingers through Minho’s damp hair. 

Minho only cried harder. “It’s my fault, Hyunjin. It’s all my fault—” 

“Shh, let me get you to bed, you’ve lost so much blood that I’m scared you’ll faint,” Hyunjin whispered, taking a step out of the tub and slowly picking up Minho along with him, who winced when his arms bumped with Hyunjin shoulder. 

Minho shook in his arms and Hyunjin easily carried him to his old bedroom which Minho had been sleeping in the past two days after washing the duvets and sheets. He placed the latter on the mattress before laying him down and covering him with the thick duvet. 

Just as he was about to leave the room, Minho’s trembling hand reached and grabbed his own. “Stay, please, I don’t think I can take the silence,” Minho whispered, voice desperate. Hyunjin blinked, before sighing and sitting down on the mattress next to him, for the first time, he could feel Minho’s hand against his. 

He couldn’t think, things felt so out of order, it felt as if he had broken some taboo. Something that cut the thin line between being palpable and just being perceived as a sensation. He knew he was dead when he could ghost through rooms and his parents walked through him and towards his body. 

It wasn't that he was stereotypically translucent, he still had the same body he had before he died, just pale and cold, with no heartbeat or pain cognition. He bit his lower lip as he glanced at Minho's face—the man's eyes were already closed and his breathing was stuttering the slightest bit, but the vice grip on his hand spoke that Minho wasn't fully out of consciousness yet. 

He had almost lost Minho, if not for the former being on the brink of death that he was able to help him. Hyunjin let go of his lower lip and crossed one leg over his thigh as he retaliated. He was supposed to be dead, yet he could feel Minho—he could touch his hand and be promised by the warmth that it was real, he knew that even Minho could see him—but what he didn't know was whether he was still dead or alive. 

Coming to life meant breaking the fundamental laws of nature—despite calling himself atheist, he knew there would be some heavy repercussions for it. Nothing occurred without something triggering it, and everything had some sort of reaction, meaning that this… if he had somehow allowed Minho to see him in that period when the latter was supposed to be dying, that meant that he had cut the thin line between life and death. 

Hyunjin frowned, but let his expression soften when he noticed that Minho's grip had loosened. 

—

It felt like drowning in an abyss. Somehow discovering being pathway dead by someone already dead made it better, a little less embarrassing, but still shameful. Minho stared at the vintage posters stuck to the ceiling and averted his eyes to Hyunjin who still sat with his legs crossed on the edge, a paperback novel in his hand. 

He took the moment to try to register the sheer absurdity of the situation. The man that sat on the edge of the bed was the same in the Polaroid that was clipped to the wall. He wore faded jeans which still had bloodstains on them near the thighs and knees, and the same loose maroon vintage shirt from one of his pictures. 

He—Hwang Hyunjin, was ethereal. Bluntly, out of the world. If he were alive at the moment, Minho was sure he would've been scouted by modeling agencies or K-idol industries. Minho almost felt entitled to be in his presence somehow, if it weren't him who prevented Minho from ending it. 

Minho squeezed Hyunjin's hand, shifting a little to feel pain shoot through his body. 

Hyunjin turned to face him, the book placed open on his thigh—that was when Minho caught the few things that made Hyunjin appear inhuman—the bluish tinge to his lips and a sort of deepness in his eyes that lacked the regular glisten—it was as though there was a perpetual gloom to them. 

"It's morning," Minho mumbled, intent on saying nothing more than the obvious. 

"It has been morning for the past few hours," Hyunjin replied, reaching for his book and closing it. 

Minho forced himself to sit up by using his abdominal muscles and blinked wearily. He glanced around and caught the small solar-panel powered clock reading 11:43 A.M.— "did you not sleep?"

Hyunjin's perfect brows rose in mirth. "I don't sleep."

Minho blinked, digesting. "Oh."

"Or eat, or drink, or feel temperatures, and didn't get dirty until now." Hyunjin frowned. Minho felt his eyes trail on his bare chest and bandaged arms and couldn't help but swallow a little embarrassment. 

He merely nodded for a response, pushing himself to move and sit beside Hyunjin, letting his feet rest on the cold wood. Arguably, there wasn't much to say other than wait for Hyunjin to initiate some conversation. 

"You're… Alive?" He asked meekly. 

Hyunjin's lips fell ajar in a ghost of an answer, he glanced at Minho. "I don't have an answer to that. You weren't supposed to see me."

Minho didn't know either. All he knew was that he felt someone's presence, decided to do some research and find out that the person that passed away in this house was the only son of a rich couple. It had been some freak accident, something about the boy's friend holding him underneath the water for too long, or something that Minho couldn't recall. But what was for sure, was that the son's name had been Hwang Hyunjin. 

Once again, he didn't believe in religion, hence the only reason he began talking to Hyunjin was because his intuition told him that something was there. 

"I guess I'm blessed?" Minho tried to humor him. 

"Talk about cursed. But either way it's one and the same thing, cursed or blessed, gifts turn against us at some point," Hyunjin mumbled, shrugging. "I think you have lost something."

Minho shrugged too, reaching a hand to card his disheveled hair. 

"You should eat something," Hyunjin muttered. 

Minho blinked, suddenly feeling sheepish. "I don't think I can eat much without thinking of gore."

Hyunjin's eyebrows rose and his expression turned serious. "You've been skipping out on everything."

"How… " Minho pushed the blanket down to cover more of his exposed mid-thigh. "Right. You watch."

Hyunjin drew a small star on the cuff of his jeans, pursing his lips. "I have nothing else to do."

Minho bit down on his lower lip, looking at the ground and feeling goosebumps rise on his back as he exhaled wearily. "I wish you would've just let me die."

The thing about slitting veins wasn't bleeding out. He knew if wanted to die dry, he'd have to hit an artery; it was supposed to be the cold that killed him after he lost consciousness. Hyunjin didn't only drain the tub before he lost consciousness, he also got the wounds to puff up by applying pressure and stopping the bleeding. 

The human body and the mind were two distinct beings that happened to have been put into one place. The body strived to live, the mind could be compliant or against that—it was like a house and its drunkard owner—the house still provided shelter no matter how much the drunkard littered or tore down parts of it. 

"I couldn't," Hyunjin whispered, but the words were dragging a huge story of their own. 

Minho exhaled softly, reaching his hand to hover just above Hyunjin's, halting when he felt the coldness resonate from it. "You're cold."

Hyunjin gave him a sad look. "I'm not alive."

Minho went out into the backyard after three days of moping around, feeling useless. There was no drive left in him, to end himself nor to live, it was moreover just a passing sensation of merely existing. Like a singular atom moving in the vast cosmos, split by something as great as a singularity. 

He squinted his eyes to adjust to the sunlight and saw the pool. The movers had felt pity on him and told him that they would ask a mutual friend of theirs to clear the backyard at least, albeit they had left the pool. "How deep is it?" Minho asked, knowing that he was talking to someone other than air this time, the pool was filled with dry leaves and algae that had somehow grown in the water the melted snow had provided. 

"Eight feet," Hyunjin replied. 

Minho could see how the former must've died. Hyunjin was taller than him, sure, but he seemed less than six feet. Although, he didn't feel it was the right time to question it. "It's deep," Minho conversed, "don't think I'll ever use it."

"I'd rather you not after that bathroom stunt," Hyunjin said bluntly. 

Minho bit his cheek from the inside. The thing that yanked him surely must've been Hyunjin. Minho glanced away from the pool and looked around, there was a plant that he knew was a pink hyacinth one, the bare branches had tiny lush green leaves, a foretelling of spring. There were a few trees too, which were taken over by orchids. 

The past few days had been considerably slow, Hyunjin's physical presence was somehow heavily domineering when he overlooked Minho. For some reason, they didn't touch each other—almost afraid that they'd ghost right through. 

He didn't think of Hyunjin as a ghost or spirit or some creature, in a way, even if he had physically only known the latter for more than maybe four days, Hyunjin felt the most close to a human than those that surrounded him. 

Minho adjusted the cuffs of his sweater and walked towards the open back door, Hyunjin at his heels. Something that kept giving the situation more uncanniness was that Minho couldn't actually hear Hyunjin's footsteps, nor could he hear Hyunjin breathing—it spooked him but didn't scare him. 

"Let me change your bandages," Hyunjin offered, and Minho shrugged, complacent. 

Hyunjin made the simplest things feel oddly intimate. It didn't have to be romantic or sexual, just plain intimate—like something that was known just amongst the two of them, nothing more, nothing less. Minho stopped talking a lot when he found out Hyunjin was tangible, but he could feel the words trying to claw their way up his throat. 

The house was usually eerily silent, save for the sporadic energy that the neighbors had that made them play old jazz music on their phones. His freckled neighbor somehow had another taste, blasting English alt-rock songs from time to time. 

Hyunjin recognized the songs, telling him all about how his cousins sometimes got him albums from foreign countries. About a Girl, by Nirvana, was what he said was his favorite. Something about Chan’s favorite American singer, Lana Del Rey. He never really bothered learning English to an extreme, but he’d admit that some songs were nice. 

Minho knew some of the songs the latter rambled about from Chan and Changbin's playlist that they used to blast in the car while they waited outside Jisung's house. Although, for Hyunjin's seemingly tranquil aura, those songs seemed a bit too much. 

"Too loud?" Hyunjin pursed his lips. "I like classicals too."

Minho raised his brows, leaning on his folded leg. "Classicals?"

"Piano and violins," Hyunjin clarified, "orchestral."

"Ah," Minho nodded. The living room had a piano placed facing the wall, with rustic papers that held old music in a thick binder. It was worn, in the way, he had turned it on once when the house contractor was giving him a tour—the keys echoed and didn't provide a clean sound without a bit of rumbling in them. 

Hyunjin stood up and Minho followed him with his eyes as he sat down on the piano stool, straightening his back. "Any certain music?"

Minho blinked, there wasn't much he wanted to hear, just about anything was fine, but he didn't want anything heavy like Tchaikovsky or Beethoven. "... By any chance do you know "To a Wild Rose?" "

"MacDowell?" Hyunjin asked automatically. 

Minho didn't know the composer, but he could recognize the tune if he heard it. "I suppose."

Hyunjin pressed a key and cursed at its ugly reverberation—objectively, Minho wondered if music could ever be ugly. Even in exceptional cacophonies, there was an odd tranquility that could be found if dug, for example, a thunderstorm. Cities were ugly sounds because everything was mechanical, people were mechanical, and the honks were shrilling, but music in its raw form was unadulterated—the resonance of the key gave him the feeling of launching oneself into the sea. 

"Can't play the piano without having ghost-hunting authorities," Hyunjin muttered nervously. 

The next key played well, still having a short resonation as Hyunjin pressed down on the pedal. He continued testing it for a while until his fingers presumably recalled the muscle memory and picked up the pace. 

Minho leaned sideways on the couch, eyes trained on the way Hyunjin's hands moved—they didn't move much like how Chan's hands would, instead Hyunjin just extended his fingers to reach farther notes. 

The taller man's hands were beautiful, slim at the fingers and nails seemingly in a permanent manicure, although a bluish hue at his fingertips was always present. They were big in size too, and Minho sighed when he realized that—

Hyunjin made a small mistake, quickly transcribing it to fit the piece. "This used to be my blessing," he spoke up, as if tired of Minho's gaze. "Playing piano and guitar and at times a bass if I ever got my hands on it."

"It was fine until it became performance after performance till it was just sitting and reading the notes and playing, it wasn't freeform," Hyunjin said, "that's when it became a curse."

"Performing?" Minho asked, surprised. The latter seemed to have so many talents, from sketching and painting to writing small poems to playing and transcribing music—how, how did it feel like a curse?

"It was relentless." Hyunjin pressed down on the keys softly, trying to maintain the pianissimo despite the clacky notes. "My parents were never after the passion or freedom. They were after the reputation and money. What felt free became a trap for me."

Minho picked at the scabs on his wounds, taking a soft breath before allowing himself to step foot into uncharted territories. "How did you die, Hyunjin?"

"Pretty sure there's something that says ghosts aren't supposed to tell humans that."

Minho sat straight. "But you aren't a superstition or a ghost. You're just… You."

The music paused and Hyunjin glanced back at Minho giving him a look that the shorter man could just not decipher. It was that of being marooned, almost but found at once. "Funny," he resumed pressing the keys. "What was your blessing, Minho?"

Minho shrugged, and resumed his picking, wincing when he picked hard enough to cause the wound to have a bead of blood collect at its corner. He didn't want to admit to it just yet, about the blessings he had lost. 

The piano almost became a background sound, present but he couldn't quite land a lick on it. "A few."

Hyunjin hummed, barely loud over the instrument that had gained its climax, building up and up till the tension was slowly resolved in the ending chords. Like the conversation, in a way. 

Minho worked his job online, barely stepping a foot out of the house and getting all groceries delivered right to his home. He wasn't ready to face people just yet, Hyunjin was enough, the villa was enough, and he felt okay—stable for the first time since the accident. 

His wounds had majorly healed, with still present scabs over most of the deeper areas. They left nasty scars that Minho knew would be questioned—they disgusted him, but at the same time, he could complain to no one but himself. 

Hyunjin was around him for almost three and a half weeks, sitting beside him as he worked, never present in the work-call cameras in meetings he'd have with his clients. Sometimes Minho wondered if he was dreaming, but the moment he mentioned that to Hyunjin, the other affirmed that he wasn't. 

Touch had become something predominantly affiliated with them—Minho hadn't felt physically touched in months, and Hyunjin had far longer. And yet again, the touch had no connotations of romantic or sexual intentions, they felt purely intimate and Minho craved more. 

"Dance with me." Hyunjin extended his hand after he had made sure Minho had finished the pre-cut watermelon he had home delivered in the morning. There was something about the way Hyunjin looked in the orange lights, a little less human but so much more alive as he bent the slightest so that Minho could take his hand. 

The old cassette player sat on the kitchen counter, sputtering some old waltz composition by someone that didn't become as known as Mozart. 

Minho took his hand and felt himself be pulled out of his sitting position and hurled into Hyunjin's chest. "Quick, before the song changes," Hyunjin whispered, kicking away some ripped magazine pages as he guided Minho to place his hand on his shoulder. 

Minho followed through dizzily, shivering the slightest at their proximity but leaning into Hyunjin when he moved them the slightest. Minho's feet found their way into positions by simply mirroring Hyunjin's steps, easily following their slow turning and swaying. 

It felt natural to be held like this—instead of one of his old friends, giggling stupidly as they tried to dance with Minho. Hyunjin smiled down at him, letting go of the hand on his waist and trailing it down to his outer thigh so Hyunjin was holding him in a leaning position, their faces close. He broke the position as quickly as they got into it, resuming their chaste swaying. 

"You're good at this," Hyunjin murmured. 

Minho gave a sheepish shrug at that, feeling Hyunjin let go of his hand and let him pull away, to twirl back into Hyunjin's chest. 

He closed his eyes as they resumed their dance again, swaying around the living room. When he opened them, he noticed his reflection in the glass of the sliding doors leading into the patio. 

He was alone. 

He glanced back at Hyunjin and felt the bittersweet look that Hyunjin gave pinch at his insides. When Hyunjin let him go to pull out once again, Minho let go of the latter's, seeing the way his reflection was alone after a single spin—lost.

Two weeks, maybe three weeks. It had been months since he had coexisted with Hyunjin's mere presence. His reflection looked stranded, empty, stripped away from what it thought it had acquired. Not seeing Hyunjin appearing to other people had made him feel as though he had a warm secret, but somehow it felt like he was a kid with an imaginary friend that he would come to lose once he grew up. 

It was a tacky feeling like peanut butter stuck to the roof of the mouth, and ick. He couldn't scrape the feeling off and act like nothing was going to go wrong. 

"You won't be here forever," he muttered out loud. 

Hyunjin's hands stilled where they were seemingly beckoning him back as he followed Minho's gaze to the reflection. Something flickered in the way Hyunjin looked at him, maybe it was Minho's own reflection. 

"You'll leave." Minho turned to face the latter. "And I'll be here alone."

The cassette sputtered before going quiet, leaving them in the ringing silence of the huge hall. 

"Minho-yah," Hyunjin whispered. "I wouldn't be able to stay even if I wanted to."

Minho's face contorted with sheer emotion for the first time. "Why? Why can't you stay? You don't have to do anything, just stay—just exist, I'll even ignore you again… but tell me you won't disappear."

"That's not how it works," Hyunjin shook his head. 

"Screw how it works."

"That statement won't do anything, you've mentioned it yourself."

Saying words like 'I'm offended' or cursing at something for not working are nothing less than a puny whine or complaint. Who cares? What is bound to happen certainly doesn't. 

Minho bit down on his lip. "You can't just… "

"I know."

What was the point if whatever was built was going to fall anyways—or arguably, what was the point in living knowing death was inevitable? Pertaining, why was making attachments so easy but letting go so hard? 

Minho looked away from Hyunjin, taking a step back from him before running up the stairs and slamming the door to the bedroom. He could feel his stomach churn, ready to throw up the minimal food he had digested—he threw open the bathroom door and crouched in front of the toilet lid, vomiting. 

It hurt. It hurt . Everything. No matter what he did, he'd lose something. He wiped his mouth on his sleeve and could feel himself start to tremble—what was wrong with him? Didn't he get used to it now? 

He felt small sobs make their way out of his throat despite his attempt to stop them. Why? Just why. After everything felt stable for once, why? 

Minho felt Hyunjin stand outside the closed bathroom door the next day when he woke up on the floor, limbs numb and aching from falling asleep on the cold tiles. It was easy to feel Hyunjin's presence, awfully warm and yet cold at once, igniting chills down his back. 

"Go away," he whispered. 

Hyunjin stayed, the door feeling as though it moved the slightest with the press of the former's weight. 

It didn't make sense logically, would Hyunjin just leave like he never existed? Would he disappear? Or would he die again? Minho couldn't wrap his head around it—whatever it was, he would be alone. He didn't want to be alone again. 

"Minho," Hyunjin muttered from outside, back against the door as he sighed. 

"Go—"

"You asked me how I died," Hyunjin interrupted, voice awfully sad, that it made Minho feel guilty for his actions. "Do you want to know?"

Minho glanced around the bathroom, settling his gaze on the beige and sage tiles. I want to, but saying it will give a fathom that I'm okay with you leaving. 

Hyunjin seemed to read him regardless, of whether he spoke or not. "I drowned," Hyunjin said. "In that pool."

"Because of a friend," Minho supplied, rubbing calves to get them to warm up a bit. 

Hyunjin stayed quiet for a few moments, before sighing heavily. "It was never my friend," he muttered quietly. "I think back then I was commissioned to make a few paintings… on top of that I had some performances coming up. It was so stressful that I needed a break, just something that'd jolt me out of that trance."

Minho heard Hyunjin take another break before he continued. "A few of my friends came over and suggested we go to the pool and take a swim to clear my head. Back then, I was in a terrible headspace, so I wondered what it would be to just let go—and I kind of did. My friends assumed I was playing a prank but then somehow—I still don't remember what happened, but I felt one of them grab me and the next thing I knew water was coming into my mouth and nose. They pulled me out of the water too late."

Hyunjin knocked his head from the outside on the door, huffing a humorless chuckle. "There was footage of me sort of not coming up despite their attempts on the ring camera, but whose parents wanted a reputation of a suicidal son? They blamed it on my friends."

It connected the unexplained dots of how the police barely investigated before arresting the two friends. Minho bit his lower lip feeling goosebumps run down his back again. But it also gave Minho a small sense of hurt, that the sensation Hyunjin felt was just a little different from his own. 

Giving up. 

"I… you asked what my blessings were, didn't you?"

Hyunjjn hummed from the outside. 

"They were my friends," Minho whispered. "They died in a car crash."

It wasn’t something that was hard to come clean about after Hyunjin told him that he had died due to suicide. But regardless, Minho could feel his head already cloud. 

"This isn't the safest thing that has crossed your impish minds," Seungmin shouted, already taking his phone out and clicking to record. "See, this is why I don't trust you guys. Why can't Minho hyung drive?"

"You're questioning our dwaeki?" Jisung asked, reaching over Minho's head and flicking Seungmin's forehead. "C'mon."

"Minnie hyung, it'll be fine," Jeongin supplied from the front, turning around and giving him a thumbs up. 

The highway wasn't filled with traffic at night for once. There were a few cars here and there that were going below or above the speed limit after noticing that there were no police patrolling. "Yeah, I have trust issues even with my parents driving," Seungmin huffed, reaching for his seatbelt and fastening it. 

He glanced over to Minho and pulled the seat belt to fasten it for him too. "Why?" Minho pouted, skin buzzing with the soju. 

"Better do it too, Jisung," Seungmin added. "You too, Jeongin."

"We're almost there, just the detour and then we're in the neighborhood," Jeongin replied. 

"Precisely," Jisung scoffed. "Don't motherhen us, it's Chan hyung's job."

Seungmin still seemed hesitant and Minho opted to lean into him, pressing the younger's knee softly. "Relax, Minnie."

Jisung followed suit, leaning on Minho. 

The car suddenly took a small lurch and Seungmin seemed the only one who was perturbed by it, he gripped the door handle tightly and swallowed. 

"Fucking shithead," Changbin cursed, switching lanes to get away from the van that kept speeding up and going ahead. "Can't even see the lanes with this much lighting."

"Can't see you," Jeongin laughed. 

"Uhuh," Changbin slowed the car to stop at the signal, being the only one there. 

"Did you know that it makes perfect sense for you to faint when you see something you're so happy about?" Jisung asked. 

"Where are you getting at?" Changbin glanced in the rearview mirror. 

Jisung chuckled a little fondly as he and Minho sat straight. "I hope that's Chan hyung's reaction rather than being concerned for the money."

"Petition to record," Jeongin mumbled, having Jisung and Changbin and Minho's hands shoot up. "Nah I'm doing it. You guys are old."

Changbin laughed a little. "That's why, live a little."

The signal turned green, and Changbin pressed down on the accelerator. "Hyung!" Seungmin shouted. "Watch out!"

Minho glanced to his left, past Jisung, and at the truck that had made it past the stop line for the red signal and was coming towards their car—he quickly grabbed Jisung by his waist and shielded the younger's head in his shoulder just moments before the truck collided with the car—causing the vehicle to roll a couple of times before it stopped short of impact from the pole. 

Minho didn't register much of it, other than opening his eyes in a few minutes to find that he was upside down, still holding Jisung close to his body along with Seungmin. Although, he only realized the true ache when he tried to move his foot. 

"Seungmin," he hoarsed, feeling the former stir a bit—there was blood on his face and the metal that had prodded through the door seemed to have gotten both their legs grazed. "Jisung?" He whispered. 

Jisung didn't respond, and Minho put the younger's head to his shoulder to notice that the airbags had inflated in the front two seats. But all he could see was blood. 

"Me and Seungmin and Jisung survived. I had to get surgery performed twice on my legs to be able to walk again. Seungmin… he had the same injuries as me, he's also most likely fine… but Jisung—he's okay, he's alive but he must've hit his head at some point when I couldn't hold him tight enough," Minho mumbled, biting his lower lip and wiping his face. "I couldn't face any of them. Changbin and Jeongin passed away, and they apparently conducted tests to check if we had alcohol—"

Minho sniffled. "Me and Seungmin didn't get it as positive, but the rest… they did. So I didn't suffer the brunt of the scenario but I can't get the images out of my head."

"If I had just… not drunk and was the one to drive—maybe it wasn't even our fault because by the surveillance cams, the truck driver was the one that broke the signal, maybe if I had just… maybe agreed to take them our to ice cream like they were cribbing for me to—I'd still have them."

Hyunjin made a soft sound of a sigh. "What happened to Seungmin and Jisung?"

Minho bit his lower lip and wiped his eyes. "Seungmin tried reaching out but I couldn't face him. Jisung… I heard that he's in a coma."

"So… for the driver of the truck, who crashed," Hyunjin began. "Did they blame it on Changbin?"

"They did, but only found out after the trial through Seungmin's phone's proof that Changbin showed signs of being alert, and the small camera in the car that Changbin's parents' lawyers searched thoroughly for at the scene,'' Minho muttered. "I ended up unable to walk for a month… and got questioned by various psychiatrists after my behavior became catatonic."

Hyunjin stood up outside the door. "Can I see you?"

Minho bit down hard on his lower lip, standing up with a little energy and feeling his vision start to fuzz. He opened the door and saw Hyunjin giving him a sad smile, and couldn't stop the way his body rushed to Hyunjin's chest. 

"If I just wasn't so selfish," Minho whispered. 

Hyunjin hugged him back gently as if Minho was made of glass—porcelain. "It's not your fault," he said, rocking the two of them the slightest. "None of this is."

Minho could feel himself start to lose his self-restraint and felt tears prick at his eyes. He knew that Chan hadn't meant it when he lashed out at Minho for being irresponsible of the situation, but it was the same thing that he heard Jeongin's mother say. 

"It is," Minho whimpered. "I could've done just one thing and then all of this would have been prevented."

Hyunjin's fingers ran through his hair. 

"I—I thought I could get myself through by self-sabotage and then I just couldn’t. I just can’t .” 

Hyunjin hummed softly and held one of Minho’s hands, entangling their fingers. It was cold but comforting, somehow like sitting alone in a Roman museum and holding hands with a sculpture. “I thought suicide would be a way out.” 

“Escaping from all this would not give you any sense of comfort, and if you think about it through your doctorate, wouldn’t you call it a coward's move?” Hyunjin asked softly, “Why live in the impression that you’re alone?” 

Minho stifled, exhaling heavily through his nose. “By the situation, it seems like you’ve forcefully put the brunt of the entire thing on yourself and decided to isolate yourself,” Hyunjin said.

There was a question in one of the books he was told to read to widen his perspective by one of his literature professors—something that had been poorly translated from English to Hangul, but he could comprehend much of it. Is it better to speak or to die?

Depending on the situation, the answer changed. Minho felt he’d rather die than speak of the accident ever again, but something about telling Hyunjin made it different. The latter gave him a slightly broader look, it was he who blamed himself—but that was just something that came naturally with the event. 

“I don’t know, it’s easier to admit I’m at fault than to blame others,” Minho replied. 

Hyunjin chuckled softly. “It’s usually the opposite with the majority of people.” 

“It seems easy. It was never Changbin-ah’s fault, it had been the truck driver’s, but the accident could have been avoided altogether if I just would have done something differently,” Minho glanced up at Hyunjin. 

“You're spiraling again,” Hyunjin diagnosed, patting Minho’s ruffled hair down. 

Minho simply blinked, seeing the way Hyunjin’s eyes flicked as he untangled his hair. It was soft, gentle—the way the perpetual gloom in his eyes was replaced with the slightest emotion that managed to make Minho feel off. 

“You’re really strong,” Hyunjin commented. “For everything.” 

“I’m not I—” 

“It’s not something you get to decide—I’m sharing my opinion and whatever you’ll say won’t change it. Maybe if I was alive I'd have said something stupid now," Hyunjin murmured. 

Minho hummed, letting himself press into Hyunjin's body, leaving barely any place—Hyunjin's chest didn't rise and fall, he didn't breathe, rather just gave an illusion that he was. "Maybe."

Hyunjin slowly led them to sit down on the bed and pushed away some novels that were scattered, letting them fall onto the chair that rested beside the bed. Minho noticed that the sky outside was just barely illuminated, instead it was lit with a sad blue, leaking through the paper-thin curtains. 

A sad blue that filled the room in all areas other than those touched by the bathroom's orange tones. "If I were to ask, if it was better to speak or to die, what would you reply with?" Minho asked. 

Hyunjin still held him close, narrowing his eyes as he wondered. "Speak."

Minho unclasped and clasped their hands again. "I see."

—

Hyunjin could feel it vaguely, the sensation of feeling lighter after a while, it wasn't that he ever felt too heavy in his body, it was just that things felt floaty. 

Maybe it was the air that whipped his hair back and didn't particularly disturb him the way Minho had to squint his eyes to resist having dust irritating them. He had shown Minho the small ladder that led up to the rooftop, and the former insisted on gazing at the sky. 

The light population that radiated from downtown Seoul was far too much for them to see smaller stars that cluttered the sky. Instead, they just looked at the weird cloud patterns. 

"Did you know that the Gods are jealous of us?" Hyunjin asked, remembering something he had once read in some novel that had been thrown out on the streets. 

Minho glanced at him. "I'm not religious."

"Regardless, do you not think there's something out there? Like something more than just us? That probably holds more power than it's immortal. Consider the stars," Hyunjin murmured. 

"Stars die. They burn out of their hydrogen and boom or pshh ," Minho resonated. "Announce their demise or part softly."

"They don't die in our lifetimes, even if they do we won't know for a long time."

"Yeah. Back to what you were saying?" Minho asked, glancing back at the sky, staring at the few stars. 

"That they're probably looking down at you with envy," Hyunjin said. 

"As if," Minho scoffed. 

Hyunjin shook his head. "Think about the chaos theory, we live the way we do because we're aware of the fact that we'll die at some point. Time is almost like an illusion, what you see now is different from what appears."

"The Gods are jealous because they are immortal. They're stuck in a loop, to them time is meaningless, something like a dimension that doesn't matter. They wish they had a life in which things had a meaning—loss, gain, and not just constant moping," Hyunjin explained, dangling his feet off the edge. 

Minho nodded. "Time is meaningless."

"It's an asset."

"Are you bringing the argument of why live when knowing that death was inevitable?"

Hyunjin shook his head. "I'm saying, it doesn't matter what you do, but you're kind of gifted with this life only once, make use of it."

The wind was cold, despite the markings of Spring, with the blossoms blooming on the streets outside many villas. "Live knowing you're going to die, or live knowing you're going to die," Minho parroted the implication. 

Hyunjin smiled, glancing at the sky. Announce demise or part silently.  He turned to see Minho's expression, still glued onto the moon. My supernova. 

My light, my space, my time. You don't know how much you shine despite the dimness around you. 

He reached his hand to tangle his fingers with Minho's, getting enough attention from the other to get him to turn and face him—close, almost that he could feel the warmth radiating from Minho's face and his hot breath on his upper lip. One slip. Two slips. 

He met Minho's eyes and saw the same longing, but he couldn't bring himself to act on it. 

Hyunjin curled beside Minho again. He knew he was cold, and Minho was oddly sensitive to cold things, but the latter let him rest close to him on the bed. Sometimes he'd feel goosebumps rise on Minho's body, but despite it, the other man always kept him close. 

"Have you ever… '' Minho's voice trailed off as he turned on the bed so he could meet Hyunjin's eyes. "Kissed someone?"

Hyunjin had… a few people. Two girls he didn't know for the sake of spin the bottle, some stupid lemon shot exchange, and a genuine one from his old crush. 

"I have," he replied truthfully. 

Minho blinked at him innocently. "Oh."

"Have you?"

"No."

Hyunjin smiled, it was obvious. Minho wasn't easy to read, but there were times when he let himself be caught off guard, or maybe he was taunting Hyunjin for some reason. "Is this your way of asking me to take your first?"

Minho paused, before shrugging. "I'd give you all of me, if I could. Just so you'd stay."

Hyunjin placed his right hand to cup Minho's cheek, inching closer till he could once again feel the latter's breath on his upper lip. He blinked in surprise when Minho pushed first, kissing him messily to which Hyunjin couldn't help but laugh. "Hey, relax."

Minho flushed in the dim orange light. 

"Just, part your lips the slightest and close your eyes, I'll guide it," Hyunjin said softly, almost smiling in amusement when Minho complied wordlessly. 

He kissed the corner of Minho's mouth and then the tip of his nose before landing a soft kiss on the former's forehead. Minho whined a little, "Do it properly."

Hyunjin rolled his eyes, coming close to Minho's face and repeating his playful gestures again, making Minho punch his chest lightly, and opening his eyes. "Stupid."

Minho pushed himself to straddle Hyunjin's lap, and Hyunjin let him pin both his hands beside his head. "Go ahead," he grinned.

The annoyance dissipated from Minho's face and he leaned down to kiss Hyunjin—a bit more appropriately, without having their teeth clacking. When he pulled away, he looked at Hyunjin like he held the cosmos on his face. 

"That was better," Hyunjin muttered, trying to fill the silence. 

Minho nodded, his cheeks red. "Can I… ?"

Hyunjin didn't even get through with saying yes before Minho swallowed his words with his lips, more confident in their action. He shifted a little on Hyunjin's lap—and at some point began grinding down on Hyunjin's crotch—Hyunjin caught on quickly, breaking the kiss. 

"Just a kiss for this?" Hyunjin asked, amused as he noticed Minho's obvious predicament in his sweatpants. 

Minho blushed furiously, for the first time unable to argue. 

Hyunjin swallowed. "Do you… want me to?"

It was a small question, Hyunjin would never be against seeing Minho fully. And would never be against helping him in any way. Minho gave him a desperate yet shy look, nodding sheepishly. 

"Have you ever done it?" Hyunjin asked. 

Minho shook his head. "No," he replied. 

"Then, uhm," Hyunjin stammered, pushing Minho's hands off his and holding the other's waist. "Are you sure… with me?"

"I'd rather never with anyone else," Minho replied instead, giving Hyunjin a small smile. 

Minho had soft and warm skin, tender underneath his hands as they moved underneath the hem of Minho's shirt. He knew to be careful, to treat Minho like he was glass but not be overbearing with it. And Minho was pliant underneath his touch, occasionally initiating things with sudden confidence. 

He was perfect. 

The pain began shortly, the numbness in his body and sensations of just feeling ripped from a whole. He didn't have the heart to tell Minho just yet, since the latter had just begun stepping out of the house once a week with Hyunjin's constant encouragement to maybe walk around the neighborhood park or just sit on the benches underneath the blossom trees—he had started eating too, moving from just fruits to making stir-fried vegetables. 

Hyunjin bit his lower lip when he noticed that his left forearm was turning an odd translucent color, almost see-through—he covered it up well with his sweater sleeve but it didn't seem to stop his gut from feeling the impending doom that was to come. 

It felt like he was dying again, but without any pain, disappearing or dissipating. He covered his sleeve again when Minho sat down on the couch beside him and began to ramble about one of his clients being his old professor. 

Hyunjin smiled fondly. Minho was appearing more and more alive, as the days of Spring inched on, bringing hummingbirds to the backyard as the hyacinths began to flower. 

"I think I'll go over the manual files for once," Minho said, leaning on Hyunjin's lap and fiddling with Hyunjin's hair.

"You actually have manual files?" Hyunjin asked. 

Minho paused, giving a sheepish look before he nodded. "They send emails and physical copies… the mailbox is flooded."

Hyunjin hummed. The pain was a constant kind, just there, he couldn't say it was palpable but it hurt in a way it would if the windpipe was clogged. Or, he wondered if there were flowers growing in his lungs as a punishment—and if they were, were they spider lilies? 

But somehow Minho made it better, his presence, his attention. But it wasn't healthy for either. 

"There's a flower growing in the backyard," Hyunjin said, breaking the comfortable silence. "A higanbana—it's a single one."

Hyunjin wanted to say it more bluntly, but he knew Minho had understood when his hands were still on Hyunjin's chest. 

Maybe it's time? A final goodbye? 

Higanbanas represented enough of what he wanted to say. A single spider lily, for him. 

Time was slow, unlike how the past ten years had felt. Each day seemed as if it was stretching days apart, falling into a troublesome pattern of exhaustion. He tried to hide it from Minho as much as he could, but he couldn't stop the way his body just hurt whenever he moved—or if he didn't move at all. 

Minho was concerned, obviously, but didn't question him much, instead insisting on spending more and more time next to Hyunjin, sticking to him and holding him as he winced through the pain. 

Of course, the helplessness was there in Minho's eyes. No medicine, no therapy, nothing would fix him and there were days when Hyunjin could see through his hand or torso. He could always see himself in reflections, but he just couldn't see some parts now. 

Hyunjin put down another novel when he noticed Minho had shut his laptop. "Done?" He asked. 

Minho gave him an awkward smile. "Couldn't get much done."

"Why?"

Minho's expression gave him the answer. The shorter man wasn't concerned, he was scared. Hyunjin opted to give a smile back and stood up painstakingly, walking over to the bookshelf and taking out a large sketchbook. 

He sat back down on the bed and opened it, showing Minho a couple of drawings he had made of elderly couples. "I don't think I've ever shared this with anyone," he confessed as he watched Minho flip through the pages, his lips pursed into a line like he was having multiple thoughts. 

"They're amazing, just like your other artworks," Minho said. "Is there a reason there are only elderly couples?"

Hyunjin smiled at the way Minho asked, like the former was genuinely in wonder. "Couples that have lasted till that age have been together for decades, it's kind of the thing that proves that falling in love can be perpetual."

"Oh," Minho blinked, running his hand down the drawing of an old man interlocking his hands with his wife. 

"Did you know that there's a huge buzz around the idea of first love?" Hyunjin asked. 

Minho kept his laptop aside and moved close to Hyunjin, so he was leaning on his shoulder, their hands locked again. "Yeah, Chan composed many of those songs."

Hyunjin smiled. He was glad that Minho was talking a bit more comfortably about his friends. He tapped his fingers on Minho's knuckles. "I think first love is a bit useless. It can last or not. It's like trial and error."

"Mhm."

"But, there's something better about last loves," Hyunjin muttered. "They are more realistic, true. I would rather want to be someone's last love than their first."

"To the end," Minho mumbled. "It's an amazing outlook."

Hyunjin hesitated. "You are my last love, Lee Minho."

Minho seemed to have known it was coming, so he just shrugged, looking down with his lips drawn in a guilty way so Hyunjin continued, resting his cheek on Minho's head. "Even if it wasn't long lived, I'm glad I had some company."

The silence was surprisingly still comforting, waiting for the pin to drop and ruin it. Hyunjin wished he could add on more, but his throat kept on closing on itself, making him mute. 

"You fall easily," Minho murmured. 

Hyunjin hummed. "I think this time is different. It was rather something that was more intimate than anything."

"You called me your love."

"Because you are. You don't even have to do much for me to be awestruck by your existence," Hyunjin said, chuckling when he noticed that Minho had started fiddling with his fingers, something which he did when he was flustered. "Although, I suppose it's not romantic or anything else. We're both trying to survive off each other."

"Uhuh," Minho hummed, placing his foot on Hyunjin's, poking him with his toe. "Codependency feels weird when you're about to lose your codependent part."

"You'll live, Minho," Hyunjin sighed. 

"I don't think I can, not without you."

"I would say something cliche like I'd watch over you, but then you'll try talking to me," Hyunjin chuckled, moving back and pressing a chaste kiss to Minho's forehead. 

"I will."

"Please don't, you could end up in a mental ward."

Minho laughed. "Somehow sitting with the insane sounds better than losing you."

Hyunjin gave a sad smile. "Sure. I'd say the same if I had an option."

—

Minho knew there really wasn't much in his power, the universe always had the capability to prevent something like that. But that too, somehow went again its cycle of death and recreation. It was like burying your pet canary in soil and watching as flowers grew from that spot. 

He was sure they had somehow messed up the natural order and this was inevitable. Hyunjin tried to play off that he wasn't in pain, but Minho knew better. He kept hiding his arms but Minho had caught a glimpse of how they had become almost translucent and transparent. 

He was scared. 

"Are you going out today?" Hyunjin asked him, clearly implying that it was Wednesday, the day he went outside. 

Minho shook his head. "No."

"What's your favorite color?" Minho asked Hyunjin. 

Hyunjin raised his brow. "Are you being superficial?"

"No, genuinely."

"I'd say the color of that one sweater you always wear."

Minho paused. "Sage?"

"Yeah, it gives connotations of you."

Minho knew it was coming, that there was nothing he could do about it. He tried to suck in a breath and tell himself that he knew it would happen and that he'd make it through, but there was a large part of him that knew he just wouldn't. 

Hyunjin asked him to bring a small box from the basement, which was an odd request, since he had already cleared out much of it with Hyunjin's help. But the location was specific, taped underneath the table.

Minho reached under the table and took it out, turning it around in amazement. It looked like a ring box but didn't weigh enough to hold an actual ring, so he walked up the stairs and placed it on the coffee table in front of Hyunjin. 

"Open it," Hyunjin said, crouching down on the ground beside Minho. 

Minho could feel that this was another one of those things that Hyunjin bore a deeper understanding of, so he stayed quiet. He opened the box carefully, easily noticing the rings inside—they seemed like they were almost plastic. “I wanted to give this to someone.” Hyunjin rested his head on his palm. 

“So you’re giving it to me?” Minho asked. 

The rings weren’t like the ones obtained at carnivals, they were just… pretty, holding miniature floral designs. “It’s not anything special,” Hyunjin said. “But it’s not some fancy metal so you don’t have to worry about its worth or weight dragging you down.” 

“I think that is the purpose of rings,” Minho replied. 

“Yeah, this is like a promise ring.” Hyunjin picked one of them up and pulled Minho’s hand ahead, slipping the ring onto his ring finger, and Minho couldn’t help but do the same. 

There was something about the way Hyunjin said it that made perfect sense. Gold rings were expensive, they required care and held the weight of a particular promise—even other rings like silver. Metal rings died out of rust from minimal contact with water, but nothing really changed with plastic. 

He watched as Hyunjin admired the ring for a few moments.

“If I could ever meet you in another life,” he began, “I would.” 

Minho’s eyebrows knit, Hyunjin was saying it in such a manner that it was implied for the present. It wasn’t normal the way Hyunjin appeared so exhausted, maybe he had been from the constant pain but Minho couldn’t get answers without dropping the shoe.

“Why are you saying that all of a sudden?” He asked, moving closer to Hyunjin.

Hyunjin gave him a sad smile. “Promise me you’ll continue living.” 

“Hyunjin-ah—” 

The shortness of his breath was already foretelling the reaction his body was giving, and it hurt . Hyunjin simply moved closer to him till they were face to face and kissed him chastely, before pulling away and embracing him tightly. 

“Hyunjin?” Minho asked. “What’s wrong, aegi?” 

The latter merely shook his head, whispering small words about how Minho would be fine . It wouldn’t, it just wouldn’t. 

Hyunjin looked up at him and smiled. “Don’t cry, you fool.” 

Minho only cried harder at that, clutching Hyunjin’s body tight till he felt that he couldn’t breathe, all while feeling Hyunjin patting down on his back. When he calmed the slightest, he began noticing the faint glow on Hyunjin, barely there but noticeable. It wasn’t until the glow amplified that he felt himself start panicking. 

“Hyunjin—” 

“Hey, hey, it’s fine,” Hyunjin whispered. “It doesn’t hurt.” 

“But you’re—” Minho broke his sentence when he realized that Hyunjin’s left arm, which had been glowing, was dissipating in small particles. “You’re disappearing.” 

“I know, it’ll be fine.” Hyunjin kissed his forehead as Minho tried holding onto him tightly again. 

“I can’t—I can’t live without you,” Minho gasped. 

He couldn’t live with knowing that there wouldn’t be someone there to hold him when he needed it—couldn’t live with knowing that the reason he was even alive was gone.

And Hyunjin was glowing, like the stars in a way, and Minho tried to hold his hand, only for it to pass right through. He couldn’t even bring himself to beg for the other to stay , knowing how futile it was since none of them had any control over the situation. 

He simply sobbed, feeling part of his hand unable to feel Hyunjin from his lower back. “In another universe, maybe, we’d meet in a less weary circumstance,” Hyunjin said wetly. 

Minho laughed waterily, sniffling. “Okay.” 

Hyunjin placed another kiss on his forehead—and that was it, the moment Minho clutched tightly, he felt his hands ghost right through, clutching the shirt that Hyunjin wore rather than the latter man. 

Minho could feel it get hard to breathe, his chest unable to contract. “Why?” He wanted to ask, but he couldn’t, knowing the answer well. But he just couldn’t let go, he couldn’t just… accept that he was gone. 

Hyunjin wasn’t. Right? 

But he simply sobbed into the shirt. Head turning light as he couldn’t stop himself. Hyunjin had said that the last love was the most remarkable one, but despite the latter being Minho’s first, it felt more alive. 

He ended up not going out for another two weeks, ordering things online rather than going out to get them, despite the supermarket being just a fifteen-minute walk away. He cried for most of the first week, trying to search for the sensation of Hyunjin’s presence, but couldn’t feel it. 

It wasn’t until the delivery of his water filter’s filtration pod didn’t come that he had to step out, coincidentally bumping into the same freckled neighbor who was walking towards his front yard. He mumbled an apology, but the former caught his arm. 

It was another one of those gloomy blue April mornings so Minho couldn’t really make out the expression on the former’s face. “What?” 

“Your package,” the latter said, handing him the small delivery box that he hadn’t seen him carrying. He took it, glancing at the other awkwardly. 

“Oh,” his neighbor identified his gaze and scratched his nape sheepishly. “The neighborhood’s filled with cats, they have a tendency of toying around with small packages. I saw it laying in front of my house.” 

Minho nodded, ready to head back into his house with the package before the latter stopped him again. “I’m Lee Felix, by the way.” 

Minho swallowed, remembering Hyunjin’s words. “Minho,” he muttered. “Lee Minho.” 

“Nice to meet you… uh… Minho… are you older than me?” 

“I suppose,” Minho muttered, his eyes flicking to the badge on Felix’s chest. 

“So Hyung?” Felix asked. 

Minho bit his lower lip. “Sure.”  

Minho stepped away from the small community gathering and walked back to his house and brought the phone to his ear, disbelieving the voice he had just heard. “Jisung?” He asked carefully. 

“ Yeah, hyung, it’s me,” Jisung said softly through the phone. “They’re still doing tests on me. And I won’t be discharged until almost a month of physiotherapy and some more shit.” 

Minho was about to say something before he noticed a small piece of paper sitting on the ledge above the fireplace. “Jisung…”

“I know, Chan hyung told me about it. Maybe we can meet up and reconcile or something once I’m discharged—shit, the docs are coming, uhm. Hyung—-gotta go, bye.”

“Bye.” Minho muttered. 

The phone cut off soon after and he could already see Felix’s concerned messages. He ignored them for the time being and walked over to grab the piece of paper—surprised by its thickness… maybe it was watercolor paper. 

La douleur exquise, was written on the top. To Lee Minho, whom I strive to meet again sometime. 

Minho smiled bittersweetly, unable to stop himself from grabbing a pen and writing on a small me too . 

—

“Are you a dancer?” Minho asked, catching the boy who was watching him rather intently, compared to the judges. He could feel his heart throb a bit, from the dance or from running down the stage to catch up with the latter. 

He couldn’t help but catch the latter’s gaze as he danced on the stage—and whenever he did, he could feel something like deja vu. 

“Uhm, yeah. You were amazing there,” the boy said. “The competition was a tough one. I think your dance team killed it.” 

Minho pursed his lips, taking out his phone and wiping his sweat on the sleeve of his sage sweater. “Have I ever met you?” He asked, scrolling through his socials once. 

“I don’t think so,” the latter scratched his head. To Minho, he seemed around sixteen or seventeen, with a slightly naive look on his face. 

“Add your social, then.” Minho gave him his phone. 

He took the time to observe the mole underneath the other’s eye, which seemed so familiar to something he just couldn’t remember. “Done,” the latter handed him his phone back and Minho stared at the account. Hwang Hyunjin.  

“Your name is Lee Minho?” Hyunjin asked. 

Minho nodded. 

Familiarity. 

Fin.